


Every Failing Sun

by GoodGollyMissYollie (Yollie183)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brainwashing, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Substance Abuse, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:32:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5382260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yollie183/pseuds/GoodGollyMissYollie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" “You remember me?”<br/>Bucky shook his head again. “You can’t be Steve,” he whispered. "</p><p>Steve and Bucky find each other, but not the way they had hoped.</p><p>(Takes place after Age of Ultron - completely disregarding the Civil War trailer)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. These Are the Eyes and the Lies of the Taken

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first MCU fic, and probably the most graphic thing I've ever written.
> 
> Title and chapter title from 'The World is Ugly' by My Chemical Romance.

_How did this happen? Why was he here? What did they want from him?_

_Why?_

 

Freezing water splashed painfully against Bucky’s face. He spluttered, forcing his swollen eyes open to take in the leering face of the man standing over him.

Bucky struggled to his knees, bracing his metal arm against the rough wall of his cell. He heard a chuckle above him, and refocused his gaze on the man.

“Get down,” the man uttered in Russian before punching Bucky. The force of the blow to his jaw sent him toppling backwards, his right shoulder connecting painfully with a stone protruding from the wall.

“I can’t wait to hear you scream for me, little boy,” the man taunted, this time in German.

Two more men entered Bucky’s cell, dragging him through the door. He struggled, but months of torture and starvation had left his body as weak as an ordinary man’s. He was easily overpowered, easily subdued.

 

He was dragged to the White Room, as he had come to think of it. It was empty aside from two metal hooks suspended by chains from the ceiling and a single drain in the centre of the floor. The white tiled walls were grimy. Bucky tried not to think about what caused the stains.

His hands were chained and he was hoisted up on the hooks. His toes, bare and bloody, barely reached the dirty floor.

“Little boy,” the man said with a grin, “don’t you look pretty hanging there?” This time the words were in French. “But you won’t look so pretty when I’m done with you.”

 

And so it started, just like every day for the last six months.

Bucky was beaten, electrocuted, branded, water boarded. Different people and different rooms, but always pain for Bucky.

Some tortures were worse than others, Bucky learned. Some left physical marks – burns, bruises, cuts.

Others left marks that couldn’t be seen. They left marks on Bucky’s very soul, making him cry out in anguish in his pitch-black cell, alone and dying.

But they wouldn’t kill him. They kept asking questions, in a dozen languages. Questions that Bucky didn’t know the answers to, but enough of a flimsy reason for keeping him there.

Sometimes Bucky wished for the strength to kill them all. Mostly, he wished for the strength to kill himself.

Twice, he’d stopped eating, and they force-fed him until he was sick. He refused to remember what happened afterward.

Once he’d tried to crush his windpipe with his metal hand. They did unspeakable things to him to discourage him from attempting that again.

 

Bucky cried out in pain, suddenly aware that he was in the White Room. Something metal clattered against the tiles and Bucky forced himself to focus on the present moment. A length of pipe. The man was dragging it across the tiled wall, watching Bucky with a smile of delight on his face. A dull ache across Bucky’s ribs told him he’d been hit with it. That was okay. Beatings were easy to deal with.

 

An hour later, Bucky lost consciousness. His vision faded to black and he dreamt of Brooklyn.

 

A voice woke Bucky. He opened his eyes to see that he was back in his cell. A dim light filtered through the open door, framing the silhouette of the man who stood there.

“Bucky,” the man said, stepping forward. The light fell across the man’s face and Bucky caught his breath. It couldn’t be, not this man, not in this place.

“Bucky,” the man repeated, his voice low and urgent. “Can you stand? We have to go, Buck. Come on, get up!”

Bucky struggled to his feet, slapping away the man’s hand as he reached to help him. He swayed, reaching his metal arm toward the wall to steady himself _._

“Can you walk?” the man asked, his face pulled down in a frown. Bucky nodded, taking a step forward. He gritted his teeth, blinking black spots from his vision.

“Okay, that’s good, Buck. We need to go, we don’t have much time.”

Bucky took shaky steps, following the man along the dimly lit corridor heading toward the White Room. As they approached the door, it burst open. Three men rushed out, blocking their path, brandishing guns. The man in the middle, the one who’d beaten Bucky so brutally, smiled. He opened his mouth to speak, but red bloomed across his chest before he could form the words. Bucky barely heard the gunshots, even as the other two men crumpled, bleeding out on the dirty floor. Bucky looked at the man who’d taken him from his cell, the man wearing the face of Bucky’s only friend.

“Bucky, come _on,_ ” he intoned, “we have to hurry.”

But Bucky shook his head.

“Buck,” the man turned to face him fully, “do you know who I am?”

Bucky hesitated. Then spoke slowly, his throat still raw from screaming in the White Room. “You look like Steve.”

“I am Steve, Buck.”

Bucky shook his head. “Please take me back to my cell.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Bucky, no. I’m here to _rescue_ you.”

“No,” Bucky shook his head, stumbling backwards. “No, this is a game. I’ll be punished. Take me back.”

“It’s not a game.” The man reached out, gripping Bucky’s left shoulder, his fingers digging into the inflamed skin around the metal plates imbedded in Bucky’s flesh. “We have to go, Buck. I’m taking you out of here.”

“NO! TAKE ME BACK!” Bucky flinched at his own voice echoing off the walls. “Please, I don’t want to be punished again, not like last time, please god not like last time please take me back please.” Bucky was aware that he was sobbing, that his entire body was shaking. He shook his head, trying to clear the black shadows from behind his eyes.

“Bucky, please.” Blue eyes were too close to his. Bucky could smell mint on the man’s breath. “I swear I won’t hurt you. It’s me, Bucky, I swear I’m not lying.”

Bucky blinking slowly. He nodded. He couldn’t think of anything else to do. Free will had been taken from him decades ago. He followed the man claiming to be Steve. Followed him through the maze of corridors, through a door and into the cold night air. Bucky, dressed in nothing except a tattered pair of sweatpants, shivered.

“Falcon, where are you?” the man asked. Bucky looked up. There were stars in the sky. Maybe whatever punishment they had in store would be worth seeing the stars again. A dark shape moved across the stars, and Bucky recognized it as a quinjet. It landed close to them and the man with Steve’s face led him toward the open door.

Once inside the jet, Bucky was gently sat on a low bench and given a blanket. There were two other men in the jet, one with dark skin and eyes that saw too much. Another with slightly messy hair, who was piloting the jet with his back to Bucky.

“Steve,” the first man said, “he’s bleeding.”

Could it really be Steve? Bucky knew the danger of thinking that kind of thought. He knew how badly hope could hurt.

The man, Steve (no it couldn’t be it just couldn’t), the Man knelt in front of Bucky, a silver case in his hands. He opened it to reveal bandages, ointments, plasters and other first-aid equipment. Long, pale fingers dipped gauze in surgical spirits. Bucky watched as the man lifted the gauze toward his face.

“This will sting,” he said quietly.

Bucky didn’t reply, staying still as the Man cleaned the cuts on his cheek, his forehead, his chin. Next came tiny white plasters on the bigger cuts. Then the Man gently took Bucky’s right hand, pulling it closer to clean the abrasions on his wrists were the restraints cut into his skin.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Bucky didn’t reply and the Man sighed, getting to his feet and moving toward the other man.

“Sam, why is Stark part of the extraction?” he asked in a low voice.

“Dunno, man,” Sam replied. “He volunteered.”

The Man claiming to be Steve (maybe it is him? No, stop, don’t) cast a worried glance his way.

 

Twenty minutes into the flight, Bucky felt his eyelids droop. He blinked back the weariness. Sleeping was not safe, not here, not now, not with these people. He raised his right hand to rub at his eyes.

“It’s okay to sleep,” the man called Sam said quietly. “You’re safe now.”

Bucky shook his head. He tried to suppress a yawn, but failed.

“Hey,” Sam was suddenly kneeling in front of him, “what’s your name?”

“James Barnes,” Bucky answered after a slight hesitation.

“Can you remember when you were born?”

“Nineteen-seventeen. I lost the day.”

“That’s okay,” Sam said. He smiled a slightly gap-toothed smile, and Bucky thought they might have been friends in a different life.

“Do you know who I am?” Sam asked.

Bucky frowned. “No. He called you ‘Sam’.”

“My name is Sam Wilson,” Sam said. “What’s your favourite colour, James?”

Bucky’s frown deepened. “I don’t have one. I’m not allowed. Or I wasn’t allowed. I’m not sure anymore.”

Sam nodded and Bucky got the feeling he understood a lot better than Bucky himself did. Bucky rubbed at his eyes again. He blinked tiredly, forcing himself to focus on Sam’s face.

“We’re almost in New York,” Sam said. “Do you remember anything from New York?”

“Brooklyn. I remember eating ice-cream in a corner shop with Steve.”

There was a sharp intake of breath and Bucky’s eyes went to the Man claiming to be _his_ Steve.

“You remember me?”

Bucky shook his head again. “You can’t be Steve,” he whispered.

 

Two hours later, the jet landed with barely a shudder. The door opened to reveal that they were on a roof. Bucky hesitated once his bare feet touched the helipad. Was this it? Were they going to throw him off the roof?

“Hey,” Sam said gently, motioning toward a door not far from the jet. “We’re gonna go inside, okay?”

Bucky nodded, taking a step toward where Sam was leading the way.

“Hold up, just a sec,” another voice said. Bucky turned to see it was the pilot. A man with a goatee and intelligent brown eyes.

“Stark,” the Man who couldn’t be Steve began, but the man called Stark waved a hand. He stepped closer to Bucky.

“So you’re him, huh? The _Winter Soldier.”_

Bucky suddenly knew something was wrong. But he nodded anyway.

“Do you remember,” the man began, his tone dangerously pleasant, “a man called Howard Stark?”

Bucky nodded again.

“And his wife, Maria?”

“Tony, don’t do this,” the Man said again.

But Bucky nodded.

Stark took another step closer to Bucky. “You killed them.”

Bucky nodded, this time lowering his gaze to his feet.

“How?”

Bucky swallowed painfully. “I tampered with their car. Made sure the brakes would not work.”

There was a long moment’s silence, then Stark patted Bucky’s right shoulder.

“Let’s go inside. It’s freezing.”

 

Bucky was led down a flight of stairs, and into an elevator. They went down to the fourteenth floor and along a corridor to an opaque glass door.

Stark continued walking down the corridor, toward a door at the far end, his arms folded, his shoulders hunched.

Sam opened the door and Bucky glanced inside. It looked like a regular apartment. An open-plan living room and kitchen, a corridor with doors leading to what seemed to be bedrooms.

“Come on in,” Sam said, smiling again. “This is the living room, that’s the kitchen,” he waved an arm, “that’s my bedroom,” he pointed down the corridor to the left, “and Steve’s bedroom,” the door on the right-hand side.

Bucky stepped onto the carpet of the living room, realized how dirty his feet were, and stepped back into the corridor.

Sam’s smile widened. “It’s fine,” he said, motioning Bucky forward, “but I really think you need a shower.”

Bucky stepped onto the carpet again, standing still as the Man closed the door behind them.

“Hey, James?” Sam asked. “How bad are your injuries?”

“Not very,” Bucky mumbled. He wished the door was still open, wondered how far he’d get if he bolted. Probably not very far.

“Do you want to take a shower? Or bath?” Sam asked.

Bucky hesitated, a bit too long, then nodded.

“Okay. You can use Steve’s bathroom, its got the tub.”

Bucky followed Sam, aware suddenly of the Man following them. It made his heart beat faster, painful against his ribs.

Sam led him through a bedroom, and Bucky glanced at the blue bedspread, before forcing his eyes back to Sam, who opened another door to reveal a bathroom.

Sam explained the taps and temperature control, before shooing the Man away and heading back to the bedroom.

“Sam,” Bucky blurted, feeling panic rise hotly in his chest. “I don’t... I can’t...”

“It’s okay,” Sam murmured. He closed the door in the Man’s face, before leaning across the tub. He opened the tap, turning a knob that made the water steam.

“How warm should the water be?” Sam asked, but Bucky didn’t know and it made his chest ache.

He shook his head, feeling each shallow breath catch in his throat.

“It’s okay!” Sam said quickly, closing the taps. He put his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, guiding him gently to sit on the closed toilet seat. “It’s okay, James. I know this is all sudden and new. And I get that you haven’t been given a lot of choice in things. But it’s okay. You really are safe here.”

Bucky nodded, taking a shaky breath.

Sam nodded and turned to fiddle with the taps again. When the tub was half-full, he closed the taps again.

“Now, just feel if the temperature is okay.”

Bucky dipped his right hand into the warm water, swirling it around before nodding.

“Okay.” Sam grinned at him. “There are towels in that cabinet, and I’ll put some clean clothes on the bed.”

Bucky nodded again, waiting until Sam had closed the door behind him, before pulling of his grimy pants and lowering himself into the tub. The sensation nearly overwhelmed Bucky. It had been nearly seventy years since his last warm bath. For a few minutes he merely sat still, letting the heat soak into his aching body. Then he took a blue washcloth of its hook and started to wash, breathing deeply of the clean smell of the soap. But even here, now, Bucky waited for something bad to happen. For more torture, more cruelty, because there was no way this was real.

When he was clean, Bucky drained the tub. Then he took a clean towel from the cabinet. It was soft and Bucky patted gently across the bruises painting his body. There was a particularly painful spot across his side, and Bucky was sure there were cracked ribs. He healed fast, normally, but constant torture had worn down his body. He looked at his reflection in the mirror on the wall. He could count each rib. His collar- and hipbones stood out obscenely under his pale skin. He didn’t look at his face, didn’t want to look into his own eyes. There was nothing he recognized there anymore.

He took a step toward the door, and felt his knees buckle, his vision clouding over. It took a few seconds for him to regain his footing. Then he opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. The door was closed, and there was a long-sleeved shirt and pair of sweatpants lying on the bed. Bucky dressed, and towel-dried his hair before opening the door leading back to the living room.

The Man was sitting on the couch, posture tense. Sam was in the kitchen, stirring something in a small pot.

“I... what do I do with this?” Bucky held up the towel in Sam’s direction.

“Just leave it on the bed, man,” Sam said.

Bucky did, then stood awkwardly in the doorway, his metal hand pressed against the wall to keep him upright.

“Come sit down,” Sam motioned toward the stools against the kitchen counter. “Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky mumbled. He perched gingerly on a stool.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” Sam said, ladling some of the contents of the pot into a bowl. He pushed the bowl toward Bucky, along with a spoon and a little plate with two bread rolls. Bucky looked at the bowl.

“It’s soup,” Sam said, ladling into two more bowls. “Chicken noodle. Homemade.”

The Man walked quietly toward the counter, taking a seat next to Bucky and accepting his soup with a quiet thanks.

Bucky picked up the spoon, taking a small sip of soup. It tasted good. Sam dipped a piece of bread into his, and Bucky mimicked him. It was hard to make himself eat slowly, but he knew from experience that eating too much after so long without food was bad. When he’d finally drained his bowl, Bucky thanked Sam, who smiled.

Sam got up to put their dishes in the sink, then turned back to Bucky.

“You can sleep in my room tonight,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Bucky asked, and Sam nodded.

He followed Sam to his bedroom, running his fingertips over the red and gray bedspread.

“I shouldn’t,” Bucky whispered. “I’m not allowed to sleep in a bed.”

Sam’s jaw twitched and he closed his eyes for a brief second, but Bucky saw the anger in his gaze. It made his chest clench in fear. Making people angry was bad.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, taking a step away from Sam.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, James,” Sam said. “And you _are_ allowed to sleep in a bed, okay? If anyone tries to tell you otherwise, they’ll have me to answer to.”

Bucky stayed still. He didn’t understand this.

“James?” Sam asked, and Bucky looked up at him. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky looked at the bed again.

“You’ll feel better after some sleep.” Sam urged, patting the bed.

“I’m really allowed?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah, you are.”

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, waiting a few moments before getting under the covers.

Sam headed for the door.

“Wait,” Bucky said, sitting up again.

Sam paused, turning back toward him.

“Is... is that man... is he really Steve?”

Sam nodded. “Yes, he is.”

Bucky took a shaky breath and lay back down. Sam switched off the light, but left the door ajar, and Bucky was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.


	2. This Is The Test Of Flesh And Soul. This Is The Trap That Smells So Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No more hiatus! yay!
> 
> Chapter title from Some Kind of Monster by Metallica.

The Asset was strapped to a chair. It was cold, but beads of sweat gathered across his chest. A physical sign of an emotion he no longer knew how to feel. From the gloom surrounding him came a voice.

“You have failed your mission.”

The Asset made no reply, but the fingers of his right hand dug into the arm of the chair. A man, young, handsome, blonde and blue-eyed, stepped from the shadows. As always, the sight caused a painful spasm in the empty space where the Asset’s memories used to be when he was still a man.

“You have failed your mission,” the young Alexander Pierce said. “And for that you must be punished.”

Conductive pads were placed on the Asset’s chest by unseen hands.

“We will start at seven,” Pierce said, waving a hand.

As the pain started, Bucky heard Pierce’s voice from far away, “Take your punishment like a good boy, and you might get a reward later.”

Pierce’s chuckles were drowned out by Bucky’s screams.

 

“Bucky! BUCKY!”

Hands were on Bucky’s shoulders, shaking him. He tried to get away, terrified, sobbing.

“Bucky, it’s me, it’s Steve. Bucky! Open your eyes, Buck, it’s me.”

Bucky blinked, saw blonde hair and blue eyes and recoiled in fear.

“No please, please don’t I don’t want to please no no no no…” Bucky was aware of his rambling, his eyes squeezed shut, hands held protectively in front of him.

“BUCKY! Open your eyes and look at me!”

Bucky obeyed, like he was programmed to, and realized the face hovering above him was not the same one from his dream. He blinked, recognized _Steve_ and immediately thought this must be some cruel new punishment they had devised for him.

“Buck, hey, it’s okay, it’s me, Buck, it’s Steve.”

Slowly, the events of the past hours flooded through Bucky’s damaged memory, and he stilled, staring apprehensively at the other man.

Steve (was this Steve?) sat back, and Bucky pulled himself up against the headboard.

“You were having a nightmare?”

Bucky nodded, rubbing his right hand against his face.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Bucky hesitated. What was the right answer here? Steve seemed to pick up on his silent question. “It’s okay if you don’t. I won’t make you.”

Bucky nodded, grateful. Steve stayed quiet, looking at him for a long moment, then got to his feet.

“Try and get some more sleep. You’re safe here.”

Steve left, but Bucky stayed awake for a long time, only sinking into sleep as the sky lightened with the approaching dawn.

He was woken a few hours later by sounds from the kitchen. There was a sizzle of something frying, a vaguely familiar scent accompanying the sound. But above that, there were whispered voices.

“He barely believes you’re real, man.” Sam. The voice belonged to the dark skinned man from the previous night.

“But he remembers me,” Steve’s voice, pained.

“He’s not the –, “ Sam was cut off mid-sentence.

“I know!” Steve’s voice had risen to a shout.

Steve was upset, angry, because of Bucky. His pulse spiked in fear. He hadn’t meant to make anyone angry. Would they punish him? He’d tried to be good, did everything they told him. Was this because his nightmares had woken Steve? He’d seemed friendly last night, but Bucky knew very well that sometimes smiles hid the worst cruelty.

Sam spoke again, but his words were too quiet to make out. Bucky slowly sat up. He would face his punishment, and hopefully it will be over sooner. He made as little noise as possible as he padded barefoot into the kitchen. Steve was at the stove, turning something over on a skillet, while Sam leaned against the counter behind Steve, a glass of water in his hand.

Sam saw Bucky first and gave a gap-toothed smile. “Good morning.”

Steve turned, his eyes raking over Bucky, who stayed as still and quiet as possible.

“Are you okay?” Steve frowned.

Bucky gulped. Steve was angry. Bucky didn’t know what to do, what to say.

“Bucky?” Steve took a step closer to Bucky.

Bucky retreated immediately. “I’m sorry.”

Steve paused, placed the spatula he was holding on the counter, and held out his hands in a placating gesture.

“Why are you sorry, Buck?” Steve sounded genuinely confused.

“For making you angry,” Bucky whispered.

“You didn’t,” Steve said firmly. “You did nothing wrong, Buck.”

“But you’re angry,” Bucky bit his lip, afraid he’d crossed a line by speaking out of turn.

“Not at you. I’m angry at Hydra, at those people who ran the facility we took down last night. I’m angry that they hurt you.”

Bucky opened his mouth to say something, anything, but flinched when a disembodied voice spoke.

“Captain Rogers, Mr Stark wishes to see you as soon as is convenient.”

“Who’s there?” Bucky didn’t care that he was speaking out of turn. The voice had come from nowhere. Bucky had sunk to his knees, his hands covering his ears, though the voice hadn’t spoken again.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice. Bucky blinked rapidly, trying to focus on Steve’s face, moving inches from his. “Bucky, it’s okay. The voice was just Friday, she’s a computer program.”

Bucky slowly lowered his hands. Steve’s fingers were clutching at his upper arms, and Bucky realized Steve was keeping him from falling forward on his face.

“Friday?” Bucky questioned in a whisper. Steve nodded.

“I’ll show you, okay?” Steve said, his hands still warm and firm on Bucky’s arms. “Friday, would you introduce yourself to Bucky?”

“Hello, Sergeant Barnes, my name is Friday,” said the cool, female voice. “I am Mr Stark’s assistant.”

“Friday,” Sam said, “can you tell Tony that Captain Rogers will see him _after_ breakfast, please.”

“Certainly, Sam.”

Steve shot a grateful (it was grateful, Bucky thought) look over his shoulder at Sam, then helped Bucky to his feet.

 

Steve went back to the stove after giving Bucky a long, searching look. He started putting food on plates, then handed one to Bucky, gesturing toward the couches in the living area.

Bucky looked at the plate. At the knife and fork. They gave him a knife. Whatever they knew of the Winter Soldier, they must know enough not to give him knives? But Steve and Sam sat down, and started eating. Bucky followed suit, vaguely registering that the smell came from bacon. He’d almost forgotten bacon completely. It tasted good.

Between bites, Sam switched on the television, tuning in to the news with the volume on low. A story about the disaster in DC caught Bucky’s attention. It settled a sour weight in his stomach, and a dull ache throbbed behind his eyes. The headaches were nothing new to Bucky. They were a side-effect of Zola’s imperfect serum and the many memory modifications he had undergone through the decades.

Bucky’s appetite was disappearing, but he took another bite of bacon, glancing at Steve. It was difficult to swallow. The pain grew worse, and Bucky swayed. He switched his plate to his left hand, it was steadier. He didn’t want to drop and break it.

“Bucky?” Sam’s voice.

Bucky raised his right hand to his forehead, sagging forward. He was aware of his plate hitting the floor.

_Oh no,_ he thought, _they’ll be so angry. I’ll be punished…_

Another excruciating throb. Bucky’s eyes dimmed. He heard the rushing of blood in his ears, felt Steve’s hands on his arms again, before collapsing forward.

 

Even in unconsciousness, Bucky dreamed.

 

He was back in the White Room, cowering in the corner, cold, wet from the water they had hosed him down with. Four men stood over him, leering, their eyes turned to yellow, demonic slits, their teeth elongated into fangs. They were naked and Bucky knew what was coming.

He tried to raise his metal arm to fend them off, but froze when he realized the arm wasn’t there.

In its place was a bloody stump, white bone poking through the torn flesh. Bucky screamed. He didn’t wake, the bestial men descended on him, tearing at his skin with their fangs and claws, holding him down, his body as limp as a ragdoll’s as they violated him, rended his mind with their whispers. It took hours – in his dream – for him to die.

 

Bucky opened his eyes to bright light, a cold metal surface beneath his body. He was unsure of reality, fear pulling his mind further into confusion. A hand touched his shoulder. A male voice said something he couldn’t make out, but it pushed him over the edge of panic. He swung off the metal table he was laid on, his metal fingers closing around the throat of the closest person. He wasn’t sure of his objective. Was it his mission to kill this dark-haired man? He couldn’t remember. He would be punished for this – losing focus during a mission.

He was supposed to be a weapon, ruthless, efficient. If he malfunctioned, he would be decommissioned.

He felt fingers pulling at his metal wrist, another pair of hands on his shoulders. He tightened his grip.

_What was his mission?_

_He was the Winter Soldier._

_What was his mission?_

_He was the Fist of Hydra._

_What was his mission?_

_Sergeant Barnes._

_His mission?_

_James Buchanan Barnes._

_Mission?_

_Bucky. Who is Bucky? Bucky?_

“Bucky! BUCKY!” A voice shouted in his ear.

 

Bucky stumbled backwards, falling back against the steel table, his hands knotting in his hair. Steve was there, his palms warm on Bucky’s arms, his face close to Bucky’s, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky moaned, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve was still too close, blocking Bucky’s view of the other man.

“Did I kill him?”

“No,” another voice said from behind Steve. The man stepped closer and Bucky saw him clearly for the first time.

Dark hair peppered with grey, dark eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

Steve managed to unknot Bucky’s fingers from his hair. He held Bucky’s hands – flesh and metal – gently in his.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said to the man.

“It’s fine,” the man said calmly.

Bucky nodded. Steve was still holding Bucky’s hands, and Bucky turned his eyes to him. Steve was white as a sheet and Bucky realized he was scared. It made Bucky’s mouth go dry. He’d scared Steve. The weapon Hydra has turned him into was scary, he was dangerous.

Bucky dropped his gaze. It hurt to have Steve look at him that way.

“Steve?” The other man placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder, and he seemed to snap back.

“Bucky,” he said, dropping Bucky’s hands and taking a step back, “this is Bruce Banner.”

Bucky nodded and Bruce smiled at him. The man didn’t look too worse for wear, though Bucky was sure his metal fingers should’ve left bruises on Banner’s throat.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Banner asked, “would it be okay if I took your blood pressure?”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmured, mostly shocked that he’d been asked, not ordered.

Banner pushed a stool in his direction and Bucky sat down with some difficulty, since Steve was still hovering at his elbow. Once seated he held out his right arm for Banner to wrap the cuff around. There was a momentary silence, before Banner read the LCD display of the sphygmomanometer.

“One-twenty-six over eighty-four. That’s pretty normal.”

Bucky raised his left shoulder in half a shrug.

Banner seemed to dither for a second before asking, “Can I take your temperature and check your eyes?”

“Okay,” Bucky said.

Banner picked up a small silver flashlight and shone the light in Bucky’s eyes, checking the pupil response.

“Curious,” Banner muttered under his breath. Steve frowned but Bucky didn’t respond. He knew Banner has picked up the faint reflection that was a tell-tale sign of his enhanced night-vision.

Next Banner placed an electronic thermometer in the shell of Bucky’s ear, and let out a low whistle when it beeped.

“Forty-two degrees?”

“That’s normal,” Bucky said quietly. “For me, I mean. Because of Zola’s serum and the arm.”

“The arm?” Steve questioned.

Bucky nodded, but didn’t know how to explain. He’d never tried to understand the mechanics of the thing attached to his left shoulder. It was a permanent reminder of the horror of those first months.

“Tony would love to take a look at it, I bet,” Banner said.

Bucky went cold. He didn’t want to be a science experiment again. He turned his gaze to Steve, silently pleading.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Steve said.

Banner didn’t push the matter and Bucky let out a relieved breath.

Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Can we go now, Doc?”

Banner nodded, smiling at Bucky again.

Steve led Bucky through the lab area, into an elevator, and back to Steve and Sam’s apartment.

Sam was there, his face flooding with relief when he was them.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Steve answered.

Sam nodded, clapping Bucky’s arm as he stepped past him to get to the door. “I’m going downstairs, I have a training session with Clint,” he called over his shoulder as he went.

When the door closed behind him, Steve turned to face Bucky, obviously unsure of what to do now. Bucky stayed still. He’d had an episode, had hurt Steve’s friend. He should leave. He shouldn’t make Steve put up with the mess of Bucky’s existence. But Bucky has always been weak when it came to Steve. And he wanted to stay here. He wanted to be close to Steve, wanted a friend like Sam.

The silence between the two men stretched on as Steve looked at Bucky. His eyes travelled across Bucky’s face like he wanted to commit it to memory. Bucky looked down at his bare feet, his toes digging into the carpet. The quiet was heavy, and Bucky picked out sounds from the rest of the building. Footsteps on the floor below, a phone ringing somewhere above.

Finally, Steve broke the silence.

“I missed you.”

Bucky glanced up, then back down.

“I missed you, too,” he whispered, barely getting the words out before Steve’s arms enveloped him in a bear-hug. Most of Bucky’s memories of Steve were from before the war, when Steve was still tiny, and it was a shock that this Steve, now, was taller than him, his arms strong enough to squeeze the air from Bucky’s lungs.

_It’s not really him,_ Bucky’s mind whispered. _This is a trap, a test. I’ll be punished. It’s not Steve. Steve is dead, he’s dead, he’s dead in the ice._

Bucky gasped, pushing the imposter away from him with such force that the man landed on his ass on the floor, his face a mask of shock.

Before he could react, Bucky had a knee on his chest, pinning him down, his left hand around the man’s throat.

“Who are you?” Bucky demanded, furiously.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu on twitter at [yollie183](https://twitter.com/Yollie183) with any prompts (for anything Marvel) or just to say my writing sucks (as you do)...
> 
> Also, comments are like food for writers - so please do feed the animals.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always much appreciated...


End file.
